Home
by KevSam
Summary: After something happens to Justin, all he could think about was going home.  Rated for language, rape and violence.  If you can watch QAF, you can read this.
1. Chapter 1

AN: I am in no way affiliated with QAF. This story has rape, but not graphic. As for a rating, if you can watch QAF, you can read this. Also this story is post-513.

It's not to late when it happens, only a little after midnight, and you are not even that drunk, just only slightly inebriated. But it happens so fast, and you're taken by such a surprise that you don't even have a chance to use any of the self defense moves Cody had taught you. The only good thing about the whole Pink Posse ordeal was learning how to fight. After the first few punches and kicks, you wonder if you should worry about your head, because hello, a brain damaged head probably doesn't need to be continually hit. Thankfully, that is one of your last thoughts before everything goes dark.

The next thing you know you're waking up in an ambulance, blinded by the bright overhead lights. Even though all you can feel is pain, you answer the questions that the female EMT, who happens to look even younger than you, asks. You list your extremely long list of allergies and your shorter list of medications, and you tell her of your former head injury and subsequent brain damage. Then you ask her to not let them contact anybody. He doesn't want his mom to have to answer another phone call in the middle of the night, telling her that her little boy is hurt. He doesn't want Brian to be interrupted from his nightly pilgrimage to the backroom, especially since you haven't heard from him in the last seven months since you've been in New York.

You spend the next few hours in a daze, it's like this was the last rock to be placed on a glass ceiling that was already cracked, and now its all caving in. You somehow answer the questions that are asked by the nurses, and doctors and fucking x-ray tech, as you realize you have to go through all this again. You listen to them as they discuss what to give you for pain that you're not allergic to, or that won't interfere with the antiepileptic that you been taking for the last four years. Even though you haven't had a seizure since you were in last in the hospital, but you're too scared to stop taking in case you do have another one. Finally, they figured something out because before long you're given a shot of something and you silently succumb to the medicated sleep that's being offered.

Not long after you awaken to find a cast on your wrist and something white and bulky on your nose, a doctor comes in and tells you that your wrist is broken but not bad enough to need surgery (and you silently thank God it's your left and not your right), that they had to reset and splint your nose so that you could breathe properly and that you now have seven stitches across your forehead, but that none were needed for the tears that are **down there;** and you don't even want to think about that right now. You're also told that you have a concussion and that they want to keep you for a few hours for observation, and oh yeah, the cops are here to talk to you.

The cop enters, and you're not really surprised that it's a women, who looks to be about Brian's age, although he'll admit Brian has aged much better than her. When she starts asking the required questions you quickly explain to her that no, you didn't get a good look at who attacked you, you don't know anybody who would actually want to hurt him (although he does but Chris Hobbs, Cody Bell, and Craig Taylor all happen to be in the Pitts as far as he knows), and that you don't want to press charges if they happen to catch whoever did it. You truthfully explain to her that you just really want to go home and forget that anything ever happened at all, and you're really good about forgetting. What you don't tell her is that ever since you've awoken, you've been fighting off a blind terror that keeps creeping up. It's a terror that you really haven't felt since the time you woke up in the hospital, only to find that Chris Hobbs hated you so much that he literally tried to kill you by bashing your brains in with a Louisville Slugger. You also don't tell her that even when your talking to her you're silently planning on the quickest way to get to Pittsburgh, because even though he hasn't even tried to contact you in seven months, and a few hours ago you were extremely pissed about that, Brian Kinney always has been and always will be home to you. You know that as soon as you get to Brian you won't be terrified anymore because you know that as long as he's around he'll always protect you, even if all those years ago he wasn't fast enough.

The cop leaves after a few minutes. And as you sit alone, taking in your white, sterile surroundings you realize that you have to get the fuck out of there, like right fucking now. As you feel the familiar tugging of a panic attack approaching, you find yourself slowly getting out of bed and leaving the room, intent on telling the first person you find to give you something to wear so that you can get the hell out of this place. You approach the nurses desk and inform Nurse Hatchet that you are about to leave right now so if there is anything he needs to sign or such they better give it to him and can he have his clothes, right fucking now. You then politely ask to use the phone and then call Liberty Air and ask for the first flight out of New York to Pittsburgh, you don't give a shit what airport. And for once you are glad that you're mother made you memorize her emergency credit card information all those years ago when your fucking sperm donor of a father kicked you out of the house. Okay, so he didn't kick you out but he didn't exactly make sure you were welcome.

After Nurse Hatchet gives your clothes, then explains to you that you're shirt is a waste and gives you a scrub top, you realize the full implications of the stupid fucker taking his wallet and that you have no ID to get on a plane. However you are then blessed with Nurse Hatchet giving you some paperwork to fill out and telling you that the cop left a temporary identification order for you. So maybe she isn't a Nurse Hatchet but you really aren't in the mood to make nice. So after another talk with the doctor on what he should and shouldn't do, and about how he really needed to stay in the hospital for a few hours to make sure his head was okay, cause you know, head wounds can be tricky. Well, no shit you stupid fucker, you of all people know about head injuries and just how tricky they can be, be you really don't give a fuck, you just want to go HOME. And with that, you take the prescriptions he's giving you for pain, and antibiotics, and antiFUCKINGretrovirals and you leave the fucking hospital without a plan on ever returning.

As you walk outside you realize that you don't have time to go back to your apartment to pack and you really don't care if you show up in Pittsburgh with nothing but the clothes on your back. Thankfully the stupid fucker didn't realize your emergency twenty is in the ass pocket of your pants, so you still have that to use on the subway to get to the La Guardia. When you finally get to the Liberty Air ticket counter and give your identification to the counter lady, ignoring the looks you've been getting the last thirty minutes. Yes, you know that you're covered in bruises and look like shit, but do you really have to fucking stare? The next hour seems to slowly tick by as you're given you ticket, go through the security gate and find your terminal, call Daphne to pick you up when you get to the Pitts, and waiting to get on the plane so you can just go HOME to Brian.

As you arrive in the Pitts, you vow to never fly again while you have a concussion, now knowing why it is considered a no-no. As you approach the passenger pick up area, you see Daphne's car, and you feel like you're almost home. Soon, soon, you'll be in HIS arms, because no matter what has happened in the last year, he has always taken care of you when you needed him and right now, you need him. You greet Daphne hello, and assure her that you are okay, just mugged and can you please drop me off at Kennetic, and I promise to come over in a few days to have a "girls night out" and no, I don't know how long I'll be here. Finally, finally you arrive at Kennetic, and as you promise to call Daphne later that night, you realize that it's just now noon, and that twelve hours have barely passed since the Stupid Fucker Incident happened.

The lobby to Kennetic is empty except for the receptionist who thankfully is the same one from seven months ago and waves you on back. You're lucky because Cynthia's desk is empty, probably on her lunch break, and you can here Brian somewhere deep in the depths of Kennetic reaming out some poor schmuck who did something to get on Mr. Kenney's bad side. When you enter his office, you feel like its homecoming, because even though it's not the loft, or even HIM, you know you're safe, and that Bob the security guard that Brian actually stole from Vanguard, and always seemed to like him, would never let anyone in that could hurt you. So you slowly approach the couch, and gingerly lay down on it, finally starting to come down from all the drugs the hospital pumped into you, and really, really feeling the pain and feeling safe enough to let down your guard and pass out, hoping and praying that it was all a big, horrible dream.


	2. Ted's POV

AN: I'm trying to have the chapter's being a different person's POV, so some chapters will be short. Disclaimer is same as first chapter, I don't own them. Please review and enjoy the show.

Ted's POV

After a long and rather tedious morning of going over Kinnetic's monthly budget, I am rather grateful that my lunch hour is approaching. Leaving my office and heading to find Brian, I can help but think, and worry about my boss. Ever since the wedding that never was, and Justin leaving, it's almost like the last 5 years never happened. He's back to the nonstop drinking, drugging and triple tricking nightly. Okay, so maybe I'm exaggerating but he definitely is back to acting like the over the hill club boy more than he was when Justin was here. And while I'll be the first to admit to being completely lost on the intricacy that is the Brian and Justin saga, I've always silently cheered them on, enjoying the way the little blonde twink seemed to get under big bad Brian's skin.

Hoping that maybe Brian is in his office, so that I can go on and leave, I enter his office and am stopped short at the sight in front of me. There, laying on Brian's Italian sofa, is the blonde haired boy that has driven my boss mad for years, apparently asleep. Quietly backing out of the office so as not to disturb the young man, I go off to search the depths of Kinnetic, hoping to find Brian. I eventually find him as he is leaving the art department, apparently he is finished with yelling about their latest fuck up.

"Hey Brian."

"Theodore," he replies dryly.

"I need you to sign these. And then I'm heading off to meet Blake for lunch."

"There, they're signed, now go and make sure you don't end up needing any more lypo."

"Haha, very funny. So, I didn't know Justin was coming in, he staying long?"

"What the fuck are you talking about? I haven't talked to Justin in months."

"Well, then there's some strange blonde asleep on the couch in your office."

The words are barely out of my mouth when I find myself standing alone in the hallway. Oh well, time for lunch. Right as I'm about to leave my office after gathering my things, I hear an exclaimed, "What the fuck?" followed shortly by "THEODORE!" Sighing, I head towards Brian's office only to have him meet me at the door,

"Ted, I'm leaving for the rest of the day, if anything comes up, you handle it."

"Got it, everything okay?"

"Yeah, just... Go to lunch."

Well, that was strange, but shrug it off as just another part of the Brian and Justin Saga.


	3. Brian's POV

Sorry this took so long to post, but life got busy and the computer didn't work, and all sorts of stuff. But here it is chapter 3, and remember standard disclaimer applies: I do not own.

Brian

To say you were surprised when Ted told you that Justin was in your office is an understatement. Without even letting Ted finish his statement, you were already down the hall, heading to your office. You don't want to stop and stare at the blond figure asleep on the couch, but you do, silently taking in the sight of him lying there, his back to the world. You frown when you noticed the way Justin's body was tensed, even in his sleep, and decide to wake him and to figure out just what he thought he was doing showing up here.

Walking over and pushing on his shoulder telling him to "wake the fuck up", you are momentarily taken aback at how he seemed to be in a full on, ready to bolt, fight or flight position, as soon as he awakens. But then all thought leave your head when you finally take in his appearance. His normally beautiful face is swollen, covered in a mottle of bruises, both of his eyes are blacken, his bottom lip busted, stitches across his forehead and a metal splint on his nose. Not to mention the cast on his arm.

"What the FUCK?" You can't help but exclaim, then you actually notice his eyes. More importantly, you notice the look in his eyes; it's a look that over the years you have hoped, wished, dreamed and prayed would leave his eyes never to return. It's a look that graced those beautiful blue eyes for the first time when he opened them after they were closed by the swing of a baseball bat. To you that look means: hold me, protect me, save me from the nightmares, from psychotic homophobes with bats and bombs, love me. Without even thinking twice, you're calling for Ted, telling him you'll be gone for the day, and then in just a few quick strides, you have him in your arms. Once he's safely cocooned in your embrace you feel him start to break down; and knowing him probably for the first time since whatever happened, happened.

You're not sure how long you'd been standing there holding him, when he finally starts to calm down, his sobs slowly decreasing until he has control again. You start to ask him what happened, but he just shakes his head and says, "Take me home." You nod, gather your stuff, and lead him out to the 'Vette, silently noticing the slight limp he has, and the way he tentatively sits down in the car, but you just roll in your lips and decide to save your questions for later.

The drive to the loft is spent in silence, not even the radio on, and you're eerily reminded of other instances of silent drives, back when you'd have to pick him up from PIFA or the diner and even once from the supermarket, because of his bashing induced migraines that had ways of just sneaking up on him. You reach over and hesitantly grab his hand, to your relief he intertwines his fingers with yours in a hard, vice-like grip. He doesn't relinquish hold of your hand after that, squeezing it like a lifeline. Even after you park, he refuses to let go, climbing through the driver's side of the car to get out without letting go. By the time you enter the loft, he's seemed to work himself back up into a panic, but beyond that you can tell he's in pain.

"You look like you're hurting, you have anything for it?" you ask him.

"No… Yeah, fuck. I have some prescriptions I'm suppose to get filled, I haven't even though about them," he says.

"Are they in your bags? If they are, tell me where they are at, and I'll go get them and have them filled."

"I didn't bring any bags. Here," he says, pulling out the written scripts.

Somewhat surprised at his admission of having no bags, you start to worry even more, taking the scripts and looking through them. An antibiotic, Demerol, and, oh God, you feel like your going to be sick. You know that last one, you've designed ad campaigns for it, but it's something he should never have to take. Endovir, an antiviral, a drug for HIV, Oh my fucking God, you don't know what to do, to say, to think. This can't be happening. Why does he need it? What the fuck happened to him?

"Justin, I need you to tell me what happened. Because if you don't tell me, right fucking now, I'll, I'll, I don't know. Just tell me, please." Yes, you are aware you're begging, but you have to know, you need to know what happened. He sits down on the couch and starts to cry again, and you automatically go and hold him.

"I don't know how it happened. I mean, I wasn't really drunk, I guess he just took me by surprise. But I was walking down the street, and the next thing I know I'm on the ground and I'm being kicked and punched, and then I'm waking up in an ambulance. I really don't remember what happened. But they told me; they told me that when I was found, I didn't have my pants on. And the doctor said that, that he didn't use a condom. Oh God Brian, I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't know. So I just left the hospital. I had to come here; I had to get to you. The Stupid Fucker has by cell phone, and my wallet, and my keys, I don't even know what he thinks he's going to do with my keys. I'm so scared; I'm so fucking terrified. Why does this shit always have to fucking happen to me? Who the fuck did I piss on to make all this shit always fucking happen to me?"

You feel a rage, a deep black rage come over you, yet you also feel sicken, the thought of someone, anyone hurting him. And how dare they do THAT, to him, to sully him with their essence. And the thought, even the possibility, that he might be sick is unfathomable. However, as much as you want to "queen out" right now, you know that he needs you to be calm and hold him together. So you start thinking. No wallet, that means we need to cancel credit cards, no phone, we need to have his old one turned off and get a new one. But most importantly we need to get his meds filled, and soon. Knowing there's no way that you'd be able to leave right now, you start to think of whom you know that can help you out but can keep their mouth shut. For some reason, all you can think of is Ben. After calling the Professor and asking if he could do a favor and keep his mouth shut about it, you just sit with him, slowly rocking him back and forth, in hopes of soothing him into sleep. Your hopes are recognized as he drifts off, minutes before Ben buzzes to be let in.

You slowly and gently extricate yourself out of his grasp, and grabbing the filled out script sheets, go and answer your door. You surprise Ben by stepping out of the loft and sliding the door shut behind you instead of inviting him in.

"Before I tell you what's going on, I need you to promise me that you won't tell Michael what's going on, at least not yet," you start off, hoping that he agrees to your terms.

"I'm not going to lie to him Brian."

"I'm not saying you have to lie, just don't mention anything. It's not about me, it's about Justin."

"Okay, what do you need me to do?"

"Justin's here and he is hurt. We don't want anyone to know he's here yet, especially not Debbie, he needs some time to him self first. He needs some meds filled, but I can't really leave him alone right now. I need you to run down to the Liberty Pharmacy, we have an account there, and get them filled for him. I'll call ahead and let them know your coming and it's okay, but I'm going to give you his information in case it's needed. Can you help me?"

"Yeah, I can help. But why me?" As he says this, I give him the scripts.

"Look at the scripts, and I think you'll understand why you, instead of anyone else." You know he's found the prescription when he gives a small, almost silent gasp.

"Brian this is a …"

"I know." You say, cutting him off. "Last night, in New York, he was attacked and…. And…I guess the doctor's decided to play it safe, and go on and get started on an ARV, you know, Just in, just in case."

You can barely say that. Just in case, just in case what? It turns out he does

have it, then what? He's going to live a nice healthy life like Ben? For some reason, you don't think so, you know Justin, and how his body reacts to drugs and their side effects. When you think of Justin being sick, you don't see him being like Vic and Ben, living for years after they get sick, instead you think of the others you knew, from back in the 90s, when the pandemic first started, those friends who didn't make it the past the first year or two after being diagnosed.

"Brian," you hear Ben say, putting a hand on your arm, bringing your thoughts back to the here and now, "Brian, I'll do this, and no one has to know, okay. And whatever happens, you'll make it."

"Thanks. So here, is his insurance card, it has his social security number and birth date in case they need it. Here's some money, it should cover it, and just let me know. And can you please ask them, to make sure that he's not allergic to any of these meds. They should have his allergies on file, if not call me, but he's allergic to so many fucking meds that it's always a bit of trouble to start him on anything new."

"Yeah, no problem. I'll get this done and then be right back. If you need anything else, just call me." With that, Ben turned and left, leaving you standing out in front of the loft, and as much as you want to go in, you realize that you need to get a hold of yourself. You can't afford to break down and freak out, not yet. Of course, as you are Brian FUCKING Kinney, you would never admit that you are about to freak out, but you are and you know it. Finally with a deep breath, you open the door and reenter the loft.

Walking over to the couch, you sit and watch him, amazed that even with a multi-colored face, he is still so beautiful. He hadn't changed much in the last seven months, his hair is shorter than it was when he left, and it's now more like when he came back from California. One of the things you've always loved most about his was his hair, with its silky golden locks. You remember how upset you were the time he had shaved it due to the influences of that fuck Cody. As you watch him move around in his sleep, your attention is brought to the cast on his arm. The cast starts at the palm of his hand, and moves all the way up to his elbow. It was large, bulky and white, and if that doesn't say something about his state of mind, because the Justin he knows would never settle for a plain white cast. The artist within him screams for color and his Sunshine personality calls for bright, cheery colors. You don't remember seeing him with a sling, and as you don't have yours anymore, you probably need to get a new one. Last you knew, your old sling was being used to terrorize Melanie, since you'd given it to Gus as a toy, and as a 5-year-old boy, he'd turned it into a slingshot. You still find yourself amazed that you can spend hundreds of dollars on toys, but your son would rather play with a ten dollars sling his old man wore after a broken collarbone. Pulling out your phone, you call Ben and ask him to pick up a sling (small because you swear your Sunshine is part elf), a sketch pad, pencils and markers. Because you know your Sunshine and after what happened you know he'll need some type of art to help keep him sane.

You are pulled out of your thoughts by sounds that are so hauntingly familiar: the little whimpers and moans, the sounds of movement as he tries to evade whatever he's running from in his sleep. You feel your frown get deeper, as you approach him and gently awaken him, gently coaxing him out of his sleep as you have done for years.

"SHH, SHH. It's okay Justin, I'm here. I got you. You're safe now; I'm not going to let anything happen to you. You're safe here." You soothe him, with him gathered in your arms, softly whispering words of comfort. After he has awakened and calmed down, you look down at him, and gently force his head up, making sure he is looking at you, and forcing eye contact.

"Justin, listen to me. I'm not going to tell you it's all going to be okay, because you know that is complete and utter bullshit. But I mean it when I say you are safe here. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. Not again, okay?" And after receiving a slight nod from him, you continue, "Ben went to get your meds filled and he should be back soon. Now I take it your mom doesn't know you're here? Or your roommate? Didn't think so. We'll call them later, and at least let them know you are here, and then we'll start canceling everything that was in your wallet. Now I bet you want to take a shower? I think we can use a trash bag to cover your cast so that you can get cleaned up, okay?"

And you find yourself amazed that you just had a complete conversation without him even uttering a word. This is so NOT the Sunshine you know. After wrapping his arm up in plastic and helping him undress, you follow him in the bathroom. You stay in the bathroom just long enough to help him wash his hair without getting his stitches wet, and then leave him to shower in privacy.


End file.
